On Trust and Team Dynamics
by noenigma
Summary: <html><head></head>Two very different inspectors and two very different interviews...a look at the Lewis episode "The Quality of Mercy" and the Inspector Morse episode "Dead on Time".</html>
1. Misgivings and Reservations

Author's Notes: One of the things I love best about _Lewis _is the subtle weaving of parallels between it and _Inspector Morse._ Inspector Lewis is very much the man he is because of the experiences he lived through in those years he served with Morse. In these two episodes, in particular, the similarities and contrasts are beautifully done.

This story, unlike the last, did not write itself. It is one I've wanted to write long before I ever got up the nerve to try my hand at a Lewis fic, and maybe that is why it has been so difficult to get down. I've known since the minute I first saw Lewis lean over Monkford in _The Quality of Mercy_ and recognized almost the same shot of Morse and Marriot in _Dead on Time_ what I wanted this story to say…unfortunately it seems to be above my limited abilities as a writer. I've given it my best try here, and, maybe, one day in the future I'll try it again and see if I can't get closer to the mark.

I have used quite a bit of dialogue straight from the shows. Credit is due to Daniel Boyle and Alan Plater.

Disclaimer: This is purely for fan purposes. No copyright infringement intended.

**On Trust and Team Dynamics**

_Misgivings and Reservations_

Sergeant James Hathaway had been working cases with Inspector Lewis for two years when he brought Simon Monkford in on a frauds charge and solved a five-year-old, hit-and-run case. In that time, he would have liked to think that he'd grown as a cop, as a detective, and as a man from watching and learning from arguably the best man in the Oxfordshire CID.

He wasn't at all sure that had been the case. There were those who did know. Monkford, who'd certainly had enough experience in evaluating both effective and ineffective policing and who himself was not very good at what he did, could easily have told him if he had asked. Philip Horton, the autistic, art student who had lost his only friend and found one in Hathaway knew, but he hadn't the communications skills to pass that knowledge onto the sergeant. And Jessica Rattenbury, the partially paralyzed girl wounded as much by her parents as the man who had driven a truck into the back of her car, who had found comfort and support in the sergeant's presence might have said if she wouldn't have been struggling so hard under the weight of sorrow and guilt. And, there were others.

But Hathaway himself was in the dark. He couldn't tell from his periodic service evaluations which should have settled the matter once and for all.

They continued to be glowing from Chief Superintendent Innocent despite her rather caustic comments to the inspector/sergeant team in their presence. That didn't tell him much about what sort of a cop he was becoming because she'd always favored him for reasons that Hathaway no longer saw as necessarily having any relevance to being a good cop. Sure he had the background and the education to put him in good stead in the admittedly snobbish, academic community of Oxford. But, the people skills and the intuitive grasp of the essentials of a case…those were the things to which Hathaway aspired. The things he'd come to value in Inspector Lewis.

Lewis, like all the other inspectors Hathaway had worked with, diligently and dutifully filled out his service evaluations. Checking boxes and noting strengths and weaknesses in the impersonal, unenlightening manner Hathaway suspected they were taught in the inspector courses. He could imagine some tired, old boy standing in front of a classroom of Lewis' and Grainger's' and the like saying, "Now service evaluations. Waste of time, waste of paper, but if you hope to pass your own, you'll have to tick the boxes, add some sort of comment or another, and sign your name. Keep this printout handy…it's a list of terms and such to get you though the paperwork. Long as it sounds serviceable, it'll do…nobody reads 'em anyway. Sooner done, sooner to the real job."

Hathaway's read pretty much the same, regardless of which inspector had filled them out. The adequate box was ticked in the majority of rows. And then there would be a good or above average in those relating to organizational skills; a needs improvement in communication skills, interpersonal relationship skills, and a couple more along that line. Lewis, as far as that went, varied only in that where Hathaway's previous governors had given _good_s and above _average_s, his new boss bestowed _very good_s and _excellent_s and called their _needs improvement_s as _good_s and _adequate_s. Hathaway attributed the differences not to his improvement at the job but to the fact that his new governor had a more generous nature.

And that, quite probably, came from the sad fact that the majority of Lewis' own service evaluations from his sergeant days (as Hathaway had discovered, idly snooping around in old files when there was nothing better to do) had been written by a less than liberal soul.

Chief Inspector Morse had not dutifully or diligently filled out evaluations on his sergeant. On the rare occasions when he had apparently been brought to task and forced to fulfill his duties as the then Sergeant Lewis' supervising officer, Hathaway had to assume he'd been in quite the snit and taken his ill-temper out on paper. Because, surely, if the chief inspector would have been that dissatisfied with Lewis' performance; poorly written reports with blatant and frequent misspellings; garrulous nature; reckless driving; and impetuousness among other noted condemnations handwritten on evaluation forms with all the boxes smartly marked _needs improvement_ he would never have kept the man with him for one year, let alone fifteen.

There was never, not in one of them, a word of commendation or praise. Not even something like the rather cryptic note Lewis had recently begun typing into Hathaway's reports: "Should opportunity for advancement become available, Sergeant Hathaway has my full support." (The sergeant was never sure if that was a recommendation for promotion or an attempt to pass him off to someone else.) It seemed that there would have been no doubt in anyone's mind that the officer in question on those old evaluation forms should have been terminated immediately. Yet, either no one actually did read those old reports, or no one took Morse's opinions seriously because that was obviously not the case.

Certainly, Chief Superintendent Strange's own evaluations of the sergeant had not reflected Morse's sour nature. He'd found Lewis a 'fine, capable officer who discharges his duties in a proficient and timely manner, behaves himself in such a way as to uphold the good name of the Thames Valley CID, and is to be commended for his good work'. Except for the crisply typed name at the top of the forms, no one could have guessed his comments were of the same man as the one Morse had so critically evaluated.

Still, Hathaway imagined years of Morse's harsh reviews must have been difficult on the sergeant his inspector had once been. Even if, as Hathaway was certain, they had not been a fair or accurate evaluation of Lewis' performance, they couldn't have been easy to laugh off. Hathaway himself would have found them devastating and considered choosing a new vocation. He would have liked to know just how his boss had taken them, but, of course, he didn't ask because he suspected that Lewis wouldn't be all that happy to find out he was digging around in his records.

He also would have liked to know what that note on the bottom of his own evaluations really meant and whether he was supposed to be warmed by Lewis' vote of confidence or duly warned. But, he didn't ask that either. The evaluations were useless when it came to telling him what he really wanted to know; was he merely an adequate police officer doing an adequate job, or was he becoming something more, something better than that? Should he give it all up and find something in which he could succeed, or was there hope for him?

He thought that once he would have been satisfied with just doing the job and collecting his pay, but that was before he'd become Lewis' sergeant. Now he knew that wasn't enough. He wanted to be better than that with an intensity that surprised him. He had thought he'd left his passion behind him when he left the seminary, yet he found that it had simply been redirected. The kind of cop a man would want to be the one to interview his wife or daughter or sister after a violent crime, the kind of cop who would give the murdered a voice and their family the answers they needed to begin to heal…that's the kind of cop he wanted to be.

Only, not today, not this family, not this case. Why hadn't the Met done their job right five years back and brought this murderer to justice when Valerie Lewis' husband would have been numb from the shock and pain of her death? When it would have been just one more blow on top of another and not a fresh blow to an only partially healed wound? When it would have been all over and dealt with in the past and not something that still had to be painfully faced.

When it wouldn't have had to be his sergeant breaking the news to him.

Oh, Hathaway believed that Monkford deserved to be caught, and he believed that the inspector deserved and needed his wife's killer to be brought to justice…but today, in the midst of a murder investigation, coming just days after a birthday she had never lived to celebrate? Hadn't losing his wife been enough? Did he need hit with the horrors and nitty-gritty of it all this time later? Just how devastating would it be for Lewis to discover the man responsible for his pain and sorrow was sitting two floors down in a holding cell?

The enormity of what his investigation had uncovered and what it might result in weighed heavily on the sergeant. He was very much out of his depth.

It should have been a simple enough thing. Not really Hathaway's problem at all. He had the evidence, he had the confession, and he had the man. All he had to do was turn in the paperwork, nothing to do with him how charges were made or when. Only, it wasn't that simple, because he worked with the man who would have to deal with the emotional ramifications of everything those charges would bring back to life.

Worked with him and cared for him. Deeply. Inspector Lewis was more than his governor, mentor, and colleague. He was not his only friend, not even his closest, but he was…well, he was a good man who Hathaway respected and admired.

Hathaway's father had been an estate manager…a very good, very efficient, very well-organized manager who loved his family in much the same way he ran Crevecoer. His mother was his perfect match. There hadn't been shared jokes and casual banter around the family table. When Hathaway and his parents spoke on the phone there was no easy affection between them like in the one-sided conversations he'd occasionally hear between Lewis and his daughter. Hathaway loved his parents in a detached, slightly…well, he wasn't afraid of them. Of course not.

But, he wasn't comfortable with them either. He was always on edge waiting for…well, something like Morse's scathing service evaluations of Lewis. For one reason or another, he was always waiting for their disapproval and disappointment. It was silly really, for he was not ashamed of the man he had become, and they had never given him reason to believe they were either. But, still he felt it was there waiting to rear its ugly head at any moment. With his parents, with his teachers at school, with the priests in the seminary, and with those over him at work.

He couldn't have said where his fear came from, or why, as Lewis would one day ask him, he always had to be better than everyone else, but it had been a part of him since he was a very young boy at Crevecoer. Not a crippling fear, just a vague dread and expectation that made him slightly uneasy in the company of others. Only when playing his music was he completely comfortable around other people. And sometimes, with Lewis. The happy-go-lucky Lewis who exuded friendliness and acceptance. The Lewis the old-timers around the station knew and recalled so fondly; not the mercurial one that those same men didn't quite recognize as their old colleague.

But they were one and the same man. One weighed down by grief and angry at the world and God for what had happened to his wife, and the last thing Hathaway wanted to do was add to that sorrow. He decided he would wait to file the paperwork concerning Monkford. The fraud charges were enough to keep the man locked up for awhile longer. There was more than a good chance that they'd catch their killer in that amount of time.

The only problem with his decision was he couldn't escape being around Lewis, and…every time they talked and Hathaway didn't tell him the horrific truth he was keeping from him, he felt himself to be lying to the man. And worse, he felt a Judas. He found it difficult to do his work with the truth looming over him demanding to be told.

He took his troubles to the chief super. She hadn't been Lewis' biggest fan when he returned from the British Virgin Islands, but her opinion of the inspector had risen over time. She still found plenty of room for complaint with his attitude, conduct, and methods, but Hathaway knew she was a lot less disapproving than she let on. He'd hoped she would take the decision out of his hands, but she left it there. She offered her support and wished him good luck, but it was still his dilemma to face.

In the end, he didn't decide it was the better course or wiser decision to tell Lewis what he'd found out about Simon Monkford. He simply couldn't hold the truth back any longer. He couldn't keep walking beside the man, working beside him, smiling at his jokes, and offering insights into the case with it suspended over their heads waiting to drop on his unsuspecting boss.

There had to have been a better place than the hallway of the college. And there had to have been an easier, kinder way to tell the man what had to be told, but Hathaway couldn't find either. It came out garbled and not really coherent.

"Simon Monkford…I'm sorry, Sir. He's the one…the one driving the car…"

"The car, Sergeant? What car?"

"Uh…the car, Sir, that…your wife."

"My…my wife?"

"I'm afraid so, Sir. He was…he, uh, lost control and swerved—it was a get-away car."

"I see," Lewis said, but the news took a moment to settle into his understanding. It was as though he heard the words but there was a thirty-second delay before his mind processed them. When they did sink in, his body hunched over as if he'd been socked. He opened his mouth and gasped in air as though he couldn't breathe. And then, for just a moment, he went very still and quiet. Hathaway looked away to give him time to compose himself if that was what he was going to do.

Instead, he erupted, striding off down the hall like a mad bull. And, his anger wasn't directed towards the man responsible for his wife's death but at Hathaway.

"How long have you known?" he demanded. When Hathaway answered him, he asked, "Why didn't you tell me then?"

"Because the last time I mentioned your wife, you made it very clear to me I wasn't to mention the subject again," Hathaway tried to defend himself. He'd said much the same thing when Innocent had asked him what the problem was, and it had seemed perfectly reasonable then. But it sounded ridiculous now, even to him. He was a grown man, had he really tried to keep back the truth like a child sweeping a broken vase under the rug? Here was his inspector having to deal with this horrific news, and his sergeant hiding it from him because he was afraid of a bollocking.

"This is different. This is purely professional!"

"How can that be?" Hathaway asked in disbelief.

Lewis ignored his question to shout his own, "What were you frightened of? That I might go barging into the interview room and batter the living daylights out of the man?"

Yes, that had been very much what Hathaway had been frightened of. Not for Monkford, but for Inspector Lewis and, if he were honest, for himself. For Lewis, because if he did do just that it would destroy his career and his life. And that fear had not been ridiculous or unfounded. Hadn't Lewis sided with Anne Sadikov and her adopted mother when they had sought their own sort of justice against the Sons of the Twice Born? Lewis' sympathy had been with them to the point he'd practically condoned the horrific murders of three men in cold-blooded revenge. Hathaway had been, and still was, afraid the inspector would jump at a chance to wreak his own vengeance on the man who had run over his wife and left her to die.

And if a man like Lewis could…well, then what hope could Hathaway hold onto for the rest of mankind—and for himself? He needed to believe in the goodness of man, needed to believe that all the horrors he saw in his work and all the tribulations that he might be called upon to face in his life wouldn't reduce him to just another cold-blooded and callous soul. If there was anyone in the sergeant's limited experience who hadn't let the rigors of the job eat away at his compassion and humanity it was Inspector Lewis. Hathaway knew he'd be lost if Lewis couldn't find it in himself to let justice prevail but gave into hate and bitterness and need for revenge.

"Well, I think I might be tempted under the circumstances," he said. And, indeed, even though he'd never met the inspector's wife, he was tempted to do just that for her husband's sake.

"Well, maybe I would be tempted too," Lewis shot back. "But it wouldn't happen. Shall I tell you why?"

Hathaway, hurrying to keep up with the inspector, reluctantly gave him what he wanted. "Why?"

"Because you're a good cop, and you'd stop me! As it is all you've done is prove you don't really know me. And you don't know yourself either!"

By then they'd reached the car, and the drive back to the station was far from pleasant. Hathaway had no defense for his actions. He had chosen to keep the information from Lewis, and he'd felt the traitor in doing so. Little wonder that the inspector saw it the same way. Lewis had gone quiet, and the sergeant worried about what was going on in his head. He'd have preferred the angry recriminations and demands to the silence.


	2. Certainties and Sure Knowledge

_Certainties and Sure Knowledge_

But, Lewis was not quietly fomenting revenge. He was thinking instead about how little his sergeant could truly know him if he believed for even a second that he'd tear into that interview room in a fit of rage and assault a man, any man, even this man. They'd been working together for two years, and, in that time, he would have thought Hathaway would have grown to know him better than that. Would have trusted him more than that. But, then, it wasn't so hard to understand why the lad hadn't. In the years since Val had…died, there were times he'd barely known himself. Little wonder his sergeant didn't know what Lewis would do when he was faced with such news.

But, Lewis knew what he wouldn't do. And not just because Hathaway would stop it.

For one thing, he hadn't the stomach for it. Oh, Morse, was the one who'd sicked up at the sight of a dead body even after years and years at the job. Lewis though…he'd seen some sights in his time with the force. Some horrible, terrifying sights that had never left him. Sometimes they still came to him in his dreams. (Morse had said Lewis had seen too many pulled out of Isis Lock to have nightmares, but Morse hadn't always known him as well as he might have either.) Even so, to Lewis the gruesome sights of the job had always been some poor soul lost and maimed, someone to mourn, not toss up over. He could deal with dead bodies all right.

But, physically attacking another man…slapping or punching or kicking another man—no. Lewis had never had the stomach for that. It had hurt him on the football field, kept him from earning a spot on the first team. And it had proven a liability to men like Chief Inspector Johnson who thought a bit of physical intimidation was not uncalled for in the interview room. Lewis was fast and he'd never had a problem with a flying tackle to bring a suspect down in the heat of pursuit, and that had been enough for Morse. He'd never asked or expected his sergeant to throw in a kick for good measure once his opponent was down. Which was just as well, for it wouldn't have happened.

There were lines Lewis would straddle and a few he would even cross, but this was one that he'd firmly drawn into the ground and would not pass. Maybe it was inborn, just part of his makeup. Or maybe it came from hitting his growth spurt early and being half a foot taller and quite a bit broader than his brothers and sister for a few years there, and having to learn to be careful or he'd accidentally knock one of them into the wall or down the stairs. Or maybe it was the neighborhood he'd grown up in, with too many of the men coming home from the pub and taking a fist to the wife or kiddies and the sound of the yells and blows that carried into the streets where Lewis and his schoolmates played cricket. It might have been those early years on the force, seeing just what harm one man could do to another and the devastation and sorrow that followed in its wake. Whatever it was, Lewis knew he would not be storming down on Simon Monkford and beating the living daylights out of him.

He'd found that out the hard way; he'd been here before. He'd already lived out this scenario, and he'd already had to face just what he was and was not capable of doing. Ridiculous to expect his sergeant to know that though; he'd certainly never discussed it with him. And Chief Superintendent Strange had made sure nothing went on record about what had happened that day in the much more barren, much colder interview room of the old station the day Susan Fallon died.

Back then he'd been the worried sergeant—no, not worried, terrified. Not for himself, not for the man down in that interview room waiting, just as Monkford was now, to face the man he'd hurt in the worst possible way…no, but for Morse himself. Lewis had been terrified that the chief inspector's rage would destroy not only a brilliant career but also, the man himself.

Morse, for all his bluster and self-absorbed ways, was a sensitive man who loved art and music and felt deeply. Lewis was certain that if Morse had his way with the man he believed somehow responsible for his old girlfriend's death it would ruin him. The chief inspector was already subject to fits of depression…if he knew himself capable of destroying another man—what would that do to him?

But Lewis also knew that Morse, despite all of his sensitivities and deep feelings, was a man capable of stepping over every line down there in that room. If he weren't stopped, he wouldn't stop himself. And Lewis, who knew with a horrible certainty that Morse was wrong, dreadfully wrong, also knew he wasn't the man to stop him.

He should have been. He trusted Morse's instincts and he felt it, too; Dr. Marriot was somehow involved…involved, but responsible? Not for Henry Fallon's death and most likely not for his wife's either. Lewis had the tape to prove it in his jacket pocket. He should have been the one to stop Morse.

But, to do so, he would have had to destroy something precious in the chief inspector. His memories and belief in the woman he would have married all those years ago, the woman Lewis was sure he still loved. It hadn't been long at all since the chief inspector had asked him, "If someone you loved had been charged with murder, would you want to believe it?" No, he wouldn't have. And he didn't want Morse to have to face it either. For if Susan Fallon's death had so devastated Morse, what would the knowledge she'd killed her own husband do to him?

Devastated. That was the word Lewis would always think of when he remembered the way Morse had looked upon finding Susan Fallon dead. Morse had been as pale as the woman lying dead on the sofa before him. His face had been empty as though he, too, had left his earthly body.

That look of devastation had been quickly replaced by something else though. Something hard and determined and frightening. "I want that man picked up, Lewis," Morse had said in a brittle, angry voice. "I want it done now."

And Lewis had stood there knowing Morse was wrong, knowing he had the means to prove it in his pocket. The means but not the will. Not if it meant destroying the newfound happiness and peace Susan Fallon had brought into Morse's life like the fresh air Morse had let into the office with that surprisingly open window. Lewis had been unable to bring himself to take that from him before, and now…if he couldn't before, how could he now? "Sir," he'd started to say, "You're not thinking strai—"

"For God's sake, Lewis!" Morse had interrupted him. "Please…" and there was nothing Lewis could say or do against the pain in the inspector's voice. Slowly, he had nodded his head and turned to make the call. It wasn't what he should have done, but it was all he could do.

The ride back to the station had been torturous. He would have liked to offer some words of comfort but his sympathetic, "I'm sorry, Sir," had been met with nothing but silence. And he'd been too afraid to try again. Afraid Morse wouldn't survive losing Susan for the second time. And afraid if he opened his mouth, the horrible truth would come rushing out. And to his shame, afraid that truth would irrevocably and permanently destroy what he had with Morse. That tape in his pocket was damning enough if his only concern had been the man beside him, but he couldn't deny to himself that he had his own best interests at heart as well as the chief inspector's.

So, he had swallowed down the truth and instead told Morse that he had made the call and uniforms were picking up the doctor. Morse had turned to him with his piercing blue eyes narrowed and hard to say, "I want him, Lewis. I want him!"

It had been in the face of that vehemence and all it threatened to bring with it that Lewis' fear had turned to terror. Not a screaming terror. Something deeper, something more dreadful. A gnawing, enduring terror. An understanding that either he allowed Morse to go after an innocent man (and by the law Marriot, for all his yet-to-be proven involvement, was innocent. Lewis was certain of that. The man had been fishing in Scotland just as he had claimed.). Either Lewis turned his back on everything on which he'd built his life: justice and law and order. Or. Or he stuck a knife in Morse's heart.

Lewis had tried then to be the man he'd always thought he was. To be the man he'd always meant to be. A man who wouldn't stand by and let an injustice happen, regardless of the cost. He had tried to say what needed said, to reason with Morse before he faced Marriott and did who-knew-what sort of damage to the both of them. But, Morse…he'd been in such a state, he'd simply refused to hear him, hadn't even let him begin to choke the damning words out. When Lewis had persisted, Morse had said, "Leave it, Sergeant! I will deal with Marriot! You needn't be there if you haven't the stomach for it.

Lewis hadn't. He'd finished the drive back to the station with his heart in his throat and his guts twisting. He'd known Morse had to be stopped, and he'd known he wasn't the man to do it. As soon as they'd arrived in the car park, Morse had been off striding purposefully away from Lewis. Looking after him, Lewis had hesitated a moment before running to catch up with the older man as a little boy after his long-legged father. Morse had not acknowledged his presence; only marched silently on towards the duty sergeant to order Marriot brought to the interview room.

And then, Lewis had done the only thing he had known to do. He'd rushed through the hallways feeling as though everyone he passed must be able to see in his face that something dreadful was about to happen. He could have called and maybe he should have, but it hadn't occurred to him. He had been helpless to stop Morse, to stand between him and the destruction he had been calling down on himself. Lewis' only thought had been to get someone who could do what he couldn't.

And so the mad rush down the halls. Not running because…why hadn't he run? Fear others would see the truth, and his efforts to protect the chief inspector and his reputation would be too little, too late? Or just the terrible weight of what was happening? He couldn't say. All he knew was that when he had thrown open that door to Strange's office without even stopping to knock, he had been as frightened as he had ever been.

He'd answered Strange's startled exclamation simply with, "You better get down to the interview room, Sir." And something in his face or voice must have said all that needed said because the chief superintendent had been out of his chair and off down the hall like a lumbering bullet. Lewis had followed at his heels, and they'd met Morse in the hall outside the interview room. For one instant, Lewis had thought the chief superintendent's presence would be enough to derail the disaster he foresaw happening in that room. But Morse had hardly even acknowledged Strange's arrival.

Things had only gotten worse from there. Morse had already tried and convicted Dr. Marriot before he'd ever opened that door. Lewis had stood helplessly by, with the awful knowledge that he was allowing a man to be badgered when he had the crucial evidence that would put an end to his torment in his pocket. Morse wouldn't listen, but…why hadn't he given the tape to the chief superintendent? Why hadn't he reported the results of his fateful 'day's leave' in London? Strange would have heard, he would have acted to officially, and if necessarily, forcefully stop the miscarriage of justice happening in that interview room.

Lewis had looked back on that day a thousand times, and he'd never been able to understand his silence. But, regardless of the reason, without Lewis' report, Strange had had no way of knowing what was going on wasn't an interview just this side of out-of-hand but an out-and-out travesty of the law they were all there to uphold. With his hands tied by Lewis' failure to hand over that tape, Strange had been no more able to stop Morse than Lewis himself. And up until things went farther, he had been even less willing. Morse had told him that Susan Fallon was dead and that he believed the doctor was somehow involved. As long as Morse didn't cross too far over the line, the chief inspector had been willing to let the interview play out.

Of course, things had gone farther, much farther. And Strange's 'that'll do, Morse' and warning scowls had barely registered on the chief inspector's enraged mind. They hadn't stopped Morse. He'd been beyond that, out of control, out for the kill.

And the doctor hadn't seemed to understand the danger. "Can you prove that, Chief Inspector?" he had thrown those words in Morse's face as though he thought proof would save him. It should have. But, in the face of Morse's grief and rage…how couldn't Marriot have seen his peril when Morse had loomed over him, his face full of certainty and menace? How could he have not trembled before such wrath?

And how, when Morse had come to the one question that was the only one that had really mattered in that interview room, had the man answered without even a shred of self-preservation?

"What about Susan?" That was what that whole travesty of an interview had been about. And, if Lewis was honest he had to admit, whatever words would have come out of the doctor's mouth would have condemned him in Morse's eyes. They really hadn't mattered, they really weren't what had sent Morse flying at him with hate and murder in his face. It had been loss and sorrow and helplessness in the face of the finality of death…

Lewis shook his head and then nodded it. Loss and sorrow and helplessness in the face of the finality of death. That was what had been behind Morse's murderous rage that day in the old interview room, and it was what was behind Hathaway's delay in telling him about Monkford. The lad should have known he wasn't Morse. Should have known he didn't have it in him…and maybe that was why he'd been so upset about Hathaway's keeping back the truth from him. Maybe…he thought, for Val, for his wife, he should have had it in him.

Even with all of his self-knowledge, there had been times when he'd been afraid that maybe…maybe he did. So. Why shouldn't the lad have had the same doubts?


	3. Confirmations and Substantiations

_Confirmations and Substantiations_

"I want to see him," he told his sergeant when they reached the station.

Hathaway had searched his face, looking for what? Some kind of assurance he wasn't in a murderous rage? Some sign the news hadn't left him bereft and unable to carry on with the case? Forgiveness? Or, just curiosity? Well, there it was, wasn't it?

He didn't know his sergeant any better than the lad knew him. Only while Hathaway obviously didn't trust him, he trusted Hathaway. A good deal farther than he could throw him. Even after all the lies over the Will McEwen case. He might not know what was going on behind that inscrutable face, but he knew the kind of man the sergeant was. Just as he knew himself.

And, he'd come full circle…he wasn't going to assault Monkford, but it was easier to think about the old days with Morse and fume over Hathaway's distrust than it was to think about Monkford and what the man had wrought in his life.

"Do you want to speak to him?" Hathaway asked as they walked through the station's hallway toward the interview room.

Lewis didn't look at him to see if he could discern if there was some censure in the sergeant's voice or only sympathy. He'd gone beyond that for the moment. Somewhere between the college and the station he'd lost the shield of his anger and disappointment in Hathaway. And, now nothing stood between him and the devastation Simon Monkford had made of his life. That took all of his concentration just to survive; Hathaway and his betrayal would have to wait.

"Nope. Just want to look at him." Speak to the man…it was all he could do to be in the same building with him. He'd wanted to see the man caught and brought to justice. He had, but…not here, not in his building. Let him pollute and defile the Met. Lewis didn't even want to breath the same air as the man.

Lewis stared through the one-way glass at the man who had killed his wife.

'That's him?" he asked, his voice so low Hathaway wasn't sure if he was talking to him or only himself. "I don't know what I expected to see. So bloody ordinary. She deserved better." There was nothing Hathaway—or anyone else—could say in response to that truth. Lewis had heard how many next-of-kin say the same words, and there was never anything anyone could say to deny them. Even, he supposed, Monkford's sister might say the same words over her brother's body, and even then, they might still be true.

But, for his Val…there could be no doubt, she'd deserved better. But she hadn't gotten it, had she? The man on the other side of that glass had made sure she didn't. And, Lewis could stand there and stare at the man for the rest of his life, and it wouldn't give her what she deserved. He sniffed down the tears threatening to undo him, and said, "Come on. Let's do some proper work."

He couldn't though, could he? Not in the station with Monkford's stench filling the hallways, not with Val's memories filling his mind, not with unshed tears choking him…and not with the lad watching him as though he were afraid he was going to break or maybe break something—like Monkford's head. He couldn't work; he couldn't even think. He went off to speak to Isabel Dawson on her way to Venice in an effort to earn his keep and clear his head.

When he came back to the station, Chief Superintendent Innocent met him in the hallway…though when she asked if Hathaway had told him his news, he knew it hadn't been an accidental meeting.

She was worried about the team, of course. Dead wives and untrusting partners didn't help clear the boards and keep up departmental stats, did they? Had the lad told her he was afraid Lewis would go after Monkford? Did she believe him capable of that as well? He didn't want to know.

"So, you two still friends?" she asked cautiously.

"Interesting question," he answered. Were they? Had they ever been? They worked well together, but friends? "We're colleagues, workmates they'd say in the north. Now we don't swap comics every day of the week. And he listens to weird music. But he's a good cop. Just a bit young, and I suppose…enigmatic. He's private, you know."

"He says much the same about you," the chief superintendent said to his surprise.

"Well, that's ridiculous. There's nothing enigmatic about me." Which was why he hadn't quite come to grips with the lad thinking him capable of assault. Earlier he'd thought that maybe it was understandable in the circumstances…but, assault? Him? Hadn't the lad even a basic understanding of who he was? He had no more time to follow that thought for Innocent had only been working up to the real question.

"So, tell me honestly, are you okay?"

"Honest answer, I don't know. I'll just throw meself at my work and see if that makes me okay."

And that's what he'd tried to do. But, Monkford was still in the building, still plaguing him with his nagging presence; Hathaway was still throwing worried glances his way if he so much as moved; and Val…Val was still dead. The last wasn't going to change, no matter how this day played out.

The problem with Hathaway? Was it really a problem? The lad was concerned about him…well, he should be. The case wasn't moving forward, and his boss was floundering. It was the sergeant's job to worry about his inspector.

He'd worried plenty about Morse that long ago day after Susan Fallon had died.

It hadn't been Lewis or Chief Superintendent Strange that had finally put an end to the whole mess in that interview room. It had been Marriot himself. After Lewis had pulled Morse off of him, while the chief inspector still struggled against him, fighting to get at the man.

"How could I have stopped her, Morse?" he'd asked. "If she couldn't live for you, why would she listen to me?" The words had cut through the chief superintendent's shouted admonitions and Morse's inarticulate rage. And they had devastated Morse in almost the same way as Mrs. Fallon's death. The fight had died out of him, and he'd sagged against Lewis' arms.

The chief superintendent had tried to offer an apology for Morse's frenzied attack.

The doctor had needed none. "It's perfectly all right. Nothing happened here," he said because whatever else the man had been, he had known what his actions and words had done to the chief inspector. His anger and revenge had been aimed at one man, and he could and did feel remorse for the man who had accidentally been caught in its crossfire and devastated as a result.

Strange had turned then to glare at the two officers: Lewis, still wide-eyed and running on adrenaline, and Morse, dejected and empty beside him. Strange had had no desire for this sorry, ugly affair to become an official incident. "Get him out of here, Sergeant," he had ordered.

At the last instant, before Morse had gone through the door, he had turned and looked at Marriot. The doctor, unable to meet his piercing gaze, had turned his face away, and whatever else they might have said to one another had remained unsaid.

And then Morse had just walked away. And Strange and Lewis had let him. What else could they have done? He would have lashed out at whichever one might have attempted to stop him, doing even more damaged to his reputation than it had already suffered that afternoon.

There had been nothing for it but to see to Marriot's release and finish out the day. And ache for Morse. And worry about where the man had gone and what he'd gotten up to. He'd been so dejected, so defeated as he had walked out of the building. Morse had never been one to look out after himself. Lewis had considered that part of his job, and he hadn't like leaving the chief inspector to himself in such a state.

But. "Leave me alone!" Morse had told him when Lewis went to lead him from the interview room. If Lewis wouldn't have been so ashamed of his own part in the day's events, he might have not taken those words so personally…it certainly hadn't been the first time the chief inspector had rejected Lewis' help and concern, and he'd never taken it as meaning anything much at all. But, that had been before. When he had known—or thought he'd known, as it had turned out—the sort of man he was. Then Morse's abuse hadn't mattered, but now? When he actually did know what sort of a man he was; and he didn't like that sort of man at all? He'd taken Morse's words to heart.

He'd gone home to the family. Days like those…what a blessing it had been to have a family to go home to. His Val had been an anchor, and what was the saying? The wind beneath his wings. Yes, she'd been that, keeping him from crashing down to the depths of despair on nights like that one had been.

"I couldn't do it," he'd confessed to her after the kids were tucked up in their beds. That horrible truth had followed him home. It would, he believed at that moment, haunt him all the rest of his days. He was the kind of man that would allow an innocent—or, at least, not guilty—man to suffer if it meant his friends, his loved ones, didn't. He was the kind of copper who would allow justice to go unserved if that's what it took to protect his own. He was a man he did not know and did not want to know.

His Val had always known just what to say and how to say it to make him see things clearly, and that night had been no exception. "Of course, you couldn't! Not when it meant hurting him like that…not after seeing him so happy and…alive."

"And what of the doctor? I had the…well, he shouldn't have been in that interview room to start with—not if I'd been man enough to do me job. He didn't do it, but I…what kind of copper does that make me?"

"A good one, Robbie. And a good man, too," she had told him. He'd heard her sincerity and her belief in him, but he hadn't shared it.

"No, Lass," he'd said sadly, shaking his head. "No."

"Yes. You can't see yourself, Robbie. Can't know yourself, can you? But I know you. You may not have been able to stop Morse from bringing the man in—"

"Stop him—I made the call meself, man!"

She'd put her hand up over his mouth to stop his outburst and gone on, "but you did what you needed to. You made sure it didn't go too far."

"I came this close, Pet…this close to letting him do whatever he was going to do. I did. I almost got back in the car…almost just drove away and let it happen."

"But, you didn't. And you never would have done."

"Wouldn't I?"

"No," she told him gently. "You would never have left that man to face Morse without you…and you would never have allowed Morse to…do whatever you were afraid he'd do to that man. And you didn't. You stopped him the only way you could.

"You know as well as I do, Morse would never have heard what you had to say…he would have brushed it aside and gone right on to do what he was going to do. You know." She gave him a small smile and added, "You may not know yourself, but you know the chief inspector…a law unto himself, isn't he? No, Robbie, I won't have it, you sitting here beating yourself up. Trust me, you did what was right. You're a good cop, a good man, and a good friend. Now, off with you. Go out and find your Morse before the worry eats you alive."

And he'd gone, hadn't he? With her words buoying him up and her belief in him allowing him to see his actions in a different light, he'd been able to go after Morse, been able to forgive himself the part he'd played in Marriot being in that room, and been able to be the man he needed to be for Morse.

So. There really wasn't a problem with Hathaway's anxious hovering. He was just doing his job. Trying to be whatever his inspector needed him to be.

And that left only Monkford. Whose power over him grew with every passing moment and would continue to do so until he faced him, spoke to him, until he met the man who had killed his wife.

"Right," he said to his sergeant. "I'm ready to talk to Monkford now. Coming with me?" And, of course, Hathaway had because, as Lewis had known even at his angriest, his sergeant was a good one.

Hathaway had led the way into the room. "Inspector Lewis," he'd said, and the uncomfortable, nervous posturing of the man in front of him told Lewis that Monkford knew. He knew he was looking at the husband of the woman he'd hit five years before, the woman he'd left to die.

There was an uneasy silence as they looked at one another. Monkford was the first to break it. "Would it help if I said I'm truly sorry?" he asked.

"No, nothing helps." There was too much truth in those words, and hearing it, Lewis would have called them back if he could.

Monkford though failed to hear it. He rushed on as though his question had simply been the opening niceties before getting down to business. His business though wasn't Lewis'. It had taken Lewis a few moments to realize what Monkford was about…did the man really think he cared about his more-than-useless testimony? Did he really think that all Lewis was concerned about was closing his case…that Val had been nothing to him and her death no more than a bargaining chip?

It wasn't until Lewis leaned over the table and glared into the man's face that Monkford seemed to remember he wasn't facing a cop but a husband. Lewis saw Monkford draw back in the face of his anger, saw him flinch and swallow, saw his eyes widen as adrenaline flooded his system preparing him for the worst.

Realizing his danger, the man tried to say, "Sorry I simply thought—", but Lewis' answer came hard and fast to override him.

"You no longer have the right to think! We'll decide on the charges. I don't do deals with people like you." For a very long, very ugly moment, Lewis stayed there glaring at the man, wondering if maybe he did have it in him, after all. But, the moment passed, and he found he was the man he'd believed himself to be.

And, this…this get was…just a man. He wasn't a cold-blooded killer who they had needed to hunt down and keep from killing again. He was just a stupid man who had done a stupid thing and ended up running over-oh, Val, oh, my bonny, bonny lass—running over an innocent woman quite by accident, and then, being too afraid to face what he'd done, he'd left …oh, dear God, she didn't deserve that, not Val…her there to live or die.

And Lewis, who had loved her and would love her all of his days, who had received her smiles and laughs and held her, who still woke up in the nights needing her and even now felt her loss as a crippling wound every moment, who would have given anything to be there in that moment and run a comforting hand over her face and whisper his love and do and say whatever else he could have done to ease her last moments of consciousness…that man—Lewis, wanted nothing to do with him. It wouldn't help Val, it wouldn't change that horrible moment or all the pain and suffering that had come after it.

"Take me away from this man," he said. And it was there filling the air of that room, and all three of them heard it. He'd spoken the word but he hadn't meant it. Simon Monkford was far less than a man. A coward, a selfish, uncaring coward.

And Lewis who just wanted to collapse into a heap and howl for his loss right there in the middle of the interview room needed Hathaway to take him away not because he feared what he might do if he remained but because he needed the sergeant's strength to keep him upright against the pain and emptiness tearing through him.

"Sir," Hathaway said, opening the door. Lewis turned from Monkford and walked away.


	4. Squared Accounts

_Squared Accounts_

"How did you know, Sir?" Hathaway asked after they'd filled out the necessary paperwork following Professor Gregson's arrest.

"Know what, Sergeant?" Lewis asked in return. They were sitting side by side on Lewis' sofa staring at the walls and drinking down his beer.

"How did you know I wouldn't let you…you know?"

"Bash Monkford? Ah…I just knew," Lewis answered with a shrug.

Hathaway looked over at him and quietly said, "I'm sorry, Sir."

Lewis shrugged again. "Not your fault, I suppose. Things could have gone that way."

"Still, you were right. I should have trusted you."

"Should you have, Sergeant? I reckon trust comes from knowing…and—maybe it's a bit early for you to know me that well."

"Then…how'd you know I wouldn't let you?"

"Ahh…easy enough, surely. You're a smart lad. There'd be all the paperwork and hours wasted with affidavits and the like…and then, if I'd gone and gotten meself busted down to constable or thrown in the nick—well, you'd have had to find a new governor, now, wouldn't you? And who'd have you? Nah…you weren't going to let me put you through all that." Lewis looked over at Hathaway expecting to catch a glimpse of the small, amused grin the sergeant occasionally allowed himself. But, Hathaway wasn't grinning. Instead, he looked vaguely disappointed.

Lewis narrowed his eyes at him. "You really don't know, do you?" he asked.

"Sir?"

"That you're a good cop? Well, you are. A very good one. And good cops, they make mistakes, they make bad decisions now and again, but…they do what's right in the end. That's how I knew."

Hathaway took a deep breath and swirled the beer around the bottom of his bottle to avoid looking at Lewis. So, all that wondering, all those pages and pages of typed evaluation forms, and now, he had his answer. He was a good cop. It was what he'd needed to know, but Lewis wasn't finished.

"And, you meant to be a priest didn't you?"

"So?" Hathaway asked, wondering where Lewis was going now.

"Well, isn't there that bit…you know, vengeance is mine, saith the LORD or some such? Well, there you are, Sergeant. You still believe it, don't you?"

"Do I?" Hathaway asked. Some days, like today, he wondered about that. Other days, he was certain he'd put all that behind him.

Lewis gave a small snort. "You really don't know yourself, do you? Well, no matter. Trust me. You do. So."

Hathaway finally gave him the grin he'd expected earlier. "So," he said in return.

"Fancy some fish and chips?" Lewis asked.

"Will you be paying?" An odd expression that Hathaway couldn't decipher flashed across Lewis' face. "What?" he asked. "I can cover it if you want."

But, it hadn't been the cost of their supper that had brought that look to Lewis' face, but an old memory.

"_Good morning, Sir," he'd called. And Morse had turned to him in surprise. _

_He'd looked him up and down and then said, "You look terrible, Sergeant." And Lewis imagined that was true enough. But, the chief inspector looked much, much better than Lewis had feared he would. He looked…okay. And, under the circumstances, Lewis hadn't dared hope for that much._

"_I fell asleep in the car outside your place," Lewis explained. He rubbed a tired hand over his bristly chin. He'd missed his morning shave._

"_Won't Mrs. Lewis be worried about you?" Morse had inquired._

"_I phoned home," Lewis assured him and refrained from adding, "Not half as worried as I've been about you."_

"_How did you know I was here?" _

"_I'd looked everywhere else." And there'd been almost a smile from Morse then. Not a happy smile, but one of acknowledgement. One that said he understood the worry he'd caused Lewis, and more than that, he understood the affection behind the worry. _

_They'd walked to the river's edge together, and Lewis who had feared he'd lost his place by the chief inspector's side had been immeasurably pleased to be there with Morse. Finally, Morse had let him offer his condolences concerning Mrs. Fallon, and they'd discussed what had been done to Marriot. Morse was still determined to blame the doctor, but he'd had to silently acquiesce that he would never have the proof to do anything about it. The fight had gone out of him, that horrible, devouring need for vengeance, and Lewis thought they'd successfully navigated their way through and it was all safely behind them._

_And then, Morse had asked, "In the office, when I said it was Marriot, you seemed to have some doubts. Who did you think it was?"_

_Lewis had never been good at lying. His face and voice always gave him away…but, still, even now, he couldn't speak the words that he was sure would deeply hurt Morse. So, he'd choked out the lie about thinking it was William, knowing it would make him look like a very poor detective, knowing it would open him up to Morse's ridicule. But that had been all right. He could deal with Morse shaking his head over his stupidity; he couldn't deal with seeing that look of devastation on Morse's face again. It was worth having Morse think less of him if he could avoid seeing that look ever again._

_Morse had turned away, heading back up the path. And Lewis had thrown the tape into the water. It had been the first time, and the last, that he'd ever destroyed evidence, but as it had splashed into the Thames, he hadn't felt the least bit guilty. _

_Morse had called to him, "Lewis, do you feel like breakfast?"_

"_Will you be paying?"_

"_I don't seem to have any money. I'm sorry"._

"_So. It's down to me, then."_

"_Let's just say, it's one I owe you," Morse had said._

"_Yeah, let's just say that," Lewis had agreed. He'd known that Morse would never get around to squaring his account, not for all the rounds and occasional meals Lewis had paid for through the years and not for that tape in the river. But, it hadn't mattered. Lewis had been happy to pay. _

_But, he'd been wrong. Because, in the end, the chief inspector had more than squared the bill. The third of his estate he'd left to Lewis in his will easily covered every round, every bottle, every breakfast Lewis had ever bought him. It had given his children a chance at the type of education Lewis couldn't have dreamed of giving them even if he had taken that traffic inspectorship all those years before. It had let Val decorate and redecorate to her heart's content…oh, yes, he'd gotten a more than generous return on his investment in Morse's empty pocket fund._

_But, more than that…he'd been repaid a thousand-fold for that tape in the river. That day in Wytham Woods when Morse had come for him; and every day on the job. Morse had taught him how to be a detective. He had shown him how to do more than just plod along gathering evidence and drawing the obvious conclusions. He'd taught him that solving a crime was more than facts and proofs and what could be observed. It was also about listening, seeing, and understanding the things behind those proofs and observations. It was in learning the people and intuiting their thoughts and actions. And then, it was taking all those facts and proofs and putting them together with understanding and intuition. Morse had taught him to_ think_, and that had been worth it all. _

"That won't be necessary, Sergeant," Lewis told Hathaway. "I've got it…and there'll be no need for thinking you owe me one in return."

"Very generous of you, Sir," Hathaway told him as they clambered to their feet and pulled on their jackets.

"That's me," Lewis agreed easily. With all he'd gotten from Morse, he could well afford to be generous.


End file.
